today's another day (to find you)
by dreamsofdramione
Summary: Novelist Jughead Jones is struggling with his latest project. What happens when a certain blonde turns up on his doorstep in the middle of nowhere stranded just before an impending storm? Board games, flirting, baking, and power outages all add up to an interesting night that could change their lives. OR A trope fest for Sarah(theheavycrown)'s birthday that I fell in love with.


Tendrils of smoke snaked through the air, rising from the ember at the end of the cigarette situated in the ashtray amongst the crushed butts of far too many others.

"Goddammit!" Jughead was frustrated. The words were all there, in the document, in black and white, but they didn't seem to connect, at least not in the way he wanted them to.

The novel he had been working on for nearly two years, the same one he had received a hefty advance for months earlier, was almost done. But upon reread number thirty-five, his main protagonist didn't quite feel real, and he was kicking himself for the monumental oversight. _If people don't connect with a character, they won't care about the story_. He had been told that time and time again, and reading over the story once more, he realized the connection was missing _something_. What that something was, he didn't know but staring at the screen with the cursor mocking him as it blinked wasn't helping.

He made quick work of shutting the laptop and moving into his tiny kitchen. Up in the cupboard above the oven, he rifled around until he pulled down a bottle of barely touched Jack Daniels that he'd had for nearly two years.

Jughead wasn't much of a drinker. Being privy to his dad's disease as both a child and an adult had made him wary of the addictive nature that alcohol could have on him. Despite the bouts of cleanliness and the times his dad was working 'The Steps,' the memories he had of when FP fell off the wagon were enough for him to detest the effects it could have on the life he tried so hard to craft for himself.

The cabin he lived in was secluded, set back in a forest very few people dared to enter. Years before there had been a murder by the river just a few miles away and the area surrounding the scene was nearly deserted. People didn't hike there, they didn't camp or swim, as if the ghost of the teenage boy long past would haunt them all the way home if they ventured into the forest.

Jughead didn't mind, seclusion suited him and his needs. Save for the monthly trips to the grocery store, the four walls, set far too close together, were all he saw most days. Being a writer had been a dream of his since childhood. He had grown accustomed to writing in small places that smelled of liquor, like when he stayed in the cramped back room of the Wyrm, or in dark, deserted places like the drive-in's projection booth back when he could no longer bear to be in his father's vicinity. But there was nothing quite like having a space of his own - no matter how small. And it _was_ small - no room for even a couch. But it was his.

One large swig of whiskey later, his throat burned and his mind started to feel a little fuzzy around the edges, his thoughts softened a bit and his skin was growing warm. By sip four he had calmed down considerably, setting the bottle back down on the counter - still uncapped. He made his way over to the desk and opened the laptop and rereading his work once again. The dialogue sounded foreign coming from his mouth, as though they weren't his words to begin with, and they were empty to boot. Half a pack of cigarettes later, as the smoke hung thick in the air, Jughead decided to get up and open a window. With each step he took, despite the menial number needed to achieve his goal, his feet felt heavier and heavier and the room began to spin a little, tilting just slightly on its axis as he leaned his body against the sway. He had certainly had too much - too many smokes, too many words, too many drinks. It all converged into that singular moment when the world tipped on its side and he fumbled as he made contact with the wall, bumping against the rough wood before righting himself again and finally yanking the window open.

The last thing he remembered was watching the smoke billow out the open window, as he stumbled to his bed, still fully clothed but barely coherent.

One thing Jughead had gotten used to while living in the woods was his body's natural clock. Despite his best attempts, he rarely slept past 7 am and more often than not he rose with the sun. He had yet to buy curtains for the windows - it wasn't as if someone was peeking in or anything and watching the sunrise over the river had become one of his favorite past times. This particular morning though, as his limbs stretched and flexed for the first time, still wound tight from the uncomfortable position he had fallen asleep in the night before, his fist collided with something solid and his eyes shot open.

Next to him was a girl, he could tell by the curve of her waist under the covers and the bright blonde ponytail peeking out from beneath the edge of the comforter. Within seconds he examined his own choice of clothing, all still in place, the dark gray shirt adorned with an 'S', his plaid pajamas, even his socks were still on and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had been drunk for sure, but he hadn't been _that_ drunk. _Thank God_.

As the realization that they hadn't done the one thing he feared dawned on him, he let the image of the girl with the small frame, wrapped entirely in his worn comforter sink in. He couldn't see her face, or her hands, or her body, but he could picture them simply by observing the feminine curve that was severely muted by the heavy blanket. By looking at the creamy skin he could see along the back of her neck, by taking in the sight of her feet, with nails painted a bright pink, adorably sticking out from where she had hooked one leg outside of the comforter, he could tell she was beautiful. But there were a few problems. He had no idea how she got there, who she was, or how she wound up in his bed.

The second thing Jughead registered that morning was the chill he could feel deep in his bones. She was under the blanket and he was on top, and upon further inspection, he realized that the window was still open by the door. As quietly as he could, which wasn't nearly as quiet as he had hoped since he let out a short gasp as his big toe collided with the leg of his dining room chair, he shuffled to the window and yanked it closed. One bright side of living in a tiny space was the short period of time it took to heat up all 600 sq feet of it. He slowly inched the oven open and turned the heat up to 400, hoping that the space would be decently heated by the time she woke up.

There was still that tiny little problem. Who was she? He didn't think they had done anything but he didn't recognize her and had no idea how she got into his house, let alone his bed. He looked at himself in the mirror. There were no telltale marks or love bites anywhere he could see. He supposed he could be wrong though, there was plenty of skin he couldn't see, but even as that thought crossed his mind, he shook it away. Surely they hadn't slept together. It wasn't like him to sleep with a stranger and remember absolutely nothing. It was also a foreign concept for him to wake up with someone in his bed and have no idea who she was, so all he was left with was to wait. Wait for her to wake up, wait for her to tell him what happened, how she got there and what he needed to do for her to leave. He supposed that might sound a little mean, but judging by the expensive looking winter coat he saw hanging by the hook, and the smooth ponytail at the back of her head, with not even a single hair out of place, he decided it was better for her to tell him than for him to guess. Her boots were by the door, sitting in a puddle of water that he was sure was snow the night before. Upon further inspection, her peacoat was also still a bit damp, the haphazard droplets of water tapping on the ground here and there.

No one ever said making coffee was a quiet affair, and despite his best efforts, he was about as quiet as a chorus. He could see her stirring out of the corner of his eye when he finally pushed the brew button, coffee pot loaded with enough for four cups. He figured she'd want one, and he'd take three - it sounded _just_ about right to him.

When she stretched and whined, the soft curves of her body on full display as the covers fell to the side, he averted his gaze, clearing his throat to alert her of his presence. Not that he needed to, living in a cabin the size of some living rooms meant she could easily see all four corners and every inch in between without much effort.

"Good morning," she said, voice thick with sleep as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stretched once more.

"Morning." He knew he was being short, but he still had no idea who the mystery blonde occupying his tiny space was.

"Thank you again." She wore a bright smile as she padded toward the kitchen.

"Uh, you're welcome? Do you mind explaining to me why exactly you're here and how you wound up in my bed last night?" He eyed the bottle of Jack on the counter, still uncapped and moved to shield it from her view. If she had come last night, which it appeared that she had, she already knew he was in a particular state of unawareness but the bottle didn't need to serve as a harsh reminder of his choices in the light of day.

"Oh." Her eyes grew wide with worry and she froze where she stood, suspended between the corner with the bed and the corner housing the kitchen. "Um, my car broke down on the road last night and I was afraid I might freeze. I saw a light on in here and asked if I could stay until morning so I could have it towed. I'm sorry, I - I thought you would… remember?"

As he looked at her furrowed brow and the apprehension in her eyes, he immediately felt guilty for the icy greeting. It was cold enough outside, he figured he didn't need to be cold to her as well. "I'm sorry. Uh, I just don't really remember that much from last night. I had uh-"

"A lot to drink," she finished with a small giggle. "It's okay. Really. I just appreciate you letting me in. To be honest, I was kind of afraid you might be a serial killer or something. Not many people live out in these woods and I know there are some tall tales about the forest."

"Well, who's to say that I'm not?" He was trying to joke, but as soon as the sentiment spilled from his lips he realized it might have come off creepier than he intended. "No. I mean, I'm not. But you're right. There aren't many houses out here and you probably would have frozen in the cold. Speaking of," he paused, turning to discreetly cap the bottle as he pretended to check the oven. It was already warm, the open door allowing the heated air to escape.

"Is that your only heater?"

"Yeah. It's not the Five Seasons or anything, but it does the job."

"I think it's quaint." The soft smile had returned to her face as she walked the few steps to the kitchen.

"I made coffee."

"I see that. Thank you. Four cups isn't a whole lot. I hope you only planned on having one," she joked and he couldn't help the way his lips curled up at the edges, despite his best effort to suppress the growing grin.

"Actually, three are for me and one for you. That was the original plan, but I have more if we need to make it."

"I'd say that's a safe bet." Between the way her lips curled into a smile and the sparkle he saw in her emerald eyes when she winked at him, he felt his heart flutter gently in his chest. She was gorgeous, beyond gorgeous really, nearly ethereal, as if her beauty itself was impossibly unreal. _Get it together, Jones. She's a passerby whose car broke down. She'll be gone in a few hours._ "I'm Betty, by the way. I mean I know I introduced myself last night but you were…"

"Drunk. Yes. No need to remind me," he said, shaking his head. "Nice to meet you, Betty. I'm Jughead."

"I know," she giggled. "You told me last night." She turned toward the counter and began pouring herself a cup of the now brewed coffee and blowing the steaming liquid in the mug in a fruitless effort to cool it off. He couldn't help the way he laughed lightly as she tipped the mug and took a sip before making a face that said 'I just burned my tongue'.

"Did you need to use my phone? Cell service is shit but I do have a landline if that helps."

"Yes. Definitely. Do you also happen to have a phone book around here somewhere?"

One hour and a dozen phone calls later, Betty was still sitting at the kitchen table as she let out a frustrated sigh. The winds were picking up outside of the cabin and despite the headphones he had put on to give her some semblance of privacy, he had overheard the words 'blizzard' and 'tomorrow' multiple times. But the longer he snuck glances at her, observing the way her brow furrowed in frustration and the animated way her features lit up before falling once more during each phone call, the more he thought about it, a full day with her might not be so bad.

Jughead didn't have company often, and even less frequently was it that of the female variety. In fact, in the short time he had owned the cabin, he had only brought a girl home once and it was when his sister was in town for a visit. He wasn't a saint by any means, but there was something a little too personal for him about bringing a one night stand home to his safe place, the place he considered just to be _his_. But one day, a singular day, a little over twenty-four hours really, didn't sound so bad if he got to keep looking at her when she was otherwise occupied.

After they powered through the second pot of coffee, she grabbed all the parts and washed them out as if she belonged there. He asked her where she was from but he didn't recognize the name of the town. She asked him what he did for a living and when he said he was an author she just nodded, as if it were to be expected, and tossed in a 'Hemingway' jab he couldn't even be mad about.

"Thank you again," she said, drying her hands and turning to face him. Her hip was leaned against the counter and the sight of her, in his space, among his things, was easier to accept than he would have expected.

"I wouldn't thank me yet. This little shack doesn't even have a couch for you to crash on," he joked, the insinuation registering as soon as the words fell from his lips. "I mean, I just-"

She laughed as she cut him off, "You said that last night, too, and you see how that turned out."

"Okay, first thing's first, anything drunk me said cannot be used against sober me, deal?"

"Deal." Her hand reached forward for his, and when they touched, even for the briefest second, it stirred a feeling he couldn't quite name. It wasn't electric like a bolt, but there was definitely a tingle lingering on his palm as her fingers trailed across it when she pulled back.

"So, sober Jughead," she said, snapping him out of the haze that he so badly wanted to attribute to a hangover, despite knowing that he somehow wasn't even hungover anymore, "What do you do for fun?"

"I am so glad you asked."

He used that as an excuse to separate himself from the situation, walking the scant few steps to the far corner by his desk. "I write or read most days," he called over his shoulder, shuffling through a trunk he had stashed under his desk when he'd moved in and hadn't touched since, "But in the event of company, I play board games."

"Company?" she asked incredulously. "Board games?"

The giggle she let out had him turning to face her, watching the way her smile curved at the edges of her lips. Before he knew it, that was all he could see, the two plump lips pressed together as she tried to quell the grin breaking across her cheeks. They looked soft and warm and he found himself wondering if that was the case.

"Sorry," she said after a beat, regaining her composure. "I just didn't take you for the board game type with all the plaid and broody demeanor."

"Hey now, I take offense to that!" he said, feigning hurt as he brought a hand to his chest. "I'll have you know I'm tons of fun. And nothing is more fun than a good old-fashioned board game."

"Well, fair warning, Jug," she paused as the nickname slipped from her lips, that brilliant smile dimming just for a fraction of a second before she continued, "I'm amazing at Life and I hate to lose."

The unbridled chuckle that rumbled through his chest caught even himself off guard as he brought the box over to the dining room table. It was small with only two chairs and pushed up against a wall, so when he sat down, followed closely by her, their knees bumped as he tried - and failed - not to smile.

"I never lose," he said confidently, selecting the pink car and handing her the box to choose her own color. She selected the yellow one and he wasn't even surprised. She looked like a ray of sunshine with golden blonde hair and twinkling eyes; but it was more than that, she had an air of genuine happiness radiating from her that he could only liken to that of the sun, lighting up even the darkest corners of the room with a simple smile.

Her smile was sweet and her tone dripped with sincerity, but her competitive edge could be seen in the way she narrowed her eyes as she teased, "Well, prepare to be destroyed."

All he could do was shake his head and try to refocus his thoughts. She might destroy him, that much was true, but it certainly wouldn't be because of the game. With that simple thought, he felt himself stiffen. _Get it together, Jones. You know nothing about her. She's here for one day, try not to make an ass of yourself. Just because one girl smiles at you doesn't mean-_

"So pink is your favorite color?" Her words broke through his train of thought as he rolled the tiny, plastic car between his fingers.

"Not quite. I always played with my sister." He didn't add that they played on a Goodwill board their mother had picked up ages ago, or the fact that it only ever had two cars - blue and pink - so their options were limited.

"And she didn't want the pink car?"

"No. If you met her you'd know that she's not exactly a pink kind of girl." Again, he had misspoken. He noted the way her eyes shot down to her pale pink cardigan as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"I didn't mean- Uh - let me try again. My sister and I had an old game and it only ever had two cars. Even at ten she would go off about societal pressures and expectations of females and swear she'd never touch anything pink in her life purely out of principle." His words seemed to ease her a bit, but the way she held her shoulders taught told him it wasn't quite enough. So he found himself saying, "I kinda like pink anyway," which earned him another smile in response.

She hadn't been wrong, he was still taking night classes on the board when she slid into millionaire manor with a smug grin and an, "I told you so," for emphasis.

"Yeah, yeah. You win. Big whoop."

"Best two out of three?" The way her eyes lit up at the suggestion told him she wanted to play again, and despite his ego being more than a little bruised, he readily agreed.

They only had to play once more to reach the threshold. But this time, at least Jughead wasn't far behind her as she claimed victory again. "Well, maybe I'm bad at Life."

"Awwww, Juggie," she drawled, laying a hand atop his forearm. His eyes shot up only to find her already staring at him. "I bet you're not terrible at Life."

"The record would state otherwise, Betts," he teased, attempting to break the tension that had settled between them, but the statement was laced with a sense of sincerity that she hadn't missed. He was being ridiculous. He had known this girl for a matter of hours, a girl who wouldn't be around for much longer and he had yet to really learn anything about. _Geez, Jones. Are you that starved for attention? Are you really that lonely? Remember you chose this life. You chose to-_

"What else do you do for fun?" Her voice was soft this time as her finger swiped across his forearm and he found himself pulling back, needing to distance himself as much as possible to regain his composure.

"Netflix. Netflix is fun."

"Netflix?" He could hear it in her tone, even without looking. He guessed one of her eyebrows was quirked along with a teasing smile playing at the edge of her lips, but he didn't want to look, still taking the space he needed to sort out the onslaught of foreign feelings berating him.

"Yeah." He cleared his throat as he turned, noting she was still sat in the same spot at the table, neatly organizing the money and game pieces as she put them back in the box in a better order than they had been before. "Have you ever seen Making a Murderer?"

"Can't say that I have." She neatly put the last game piece in the box, pulled the lid closed, and stood up and walked the few steps toward him to hand it off. "How do you even have internet out here?"

"I'm not that primitive. Everyone needs internet, even loner weirdos out in the woods."

"Well if 'weirdo' is a stigma you're trying to shake, that hat isn't doing you any favors," she giggled, reaching up to touch one of the points of his woolen beanie. He'd had the beanie practically his whole life. It was a security blanket of sorts, a sense of comfort that nothing else had ever given him.

"Leave the beanie out of it, Betts. I'm plenty weird regardless of my clothing choices." He found himself winking as he turned away to put the game back. _A wink, really? That's what you do? You never wink, dumbass. Who even are you right now?_

"You know," she started, still standing awkward in the middle of the room, "I never would have guessed you were a loner. Living in a secluded cabin that barely fits one person screams socialite. I think you're being too hard on yourself."

As he tucked the box back in the trunk, he felt a smile threatening to break through. He fiddled with the lock on the trunk for a few extra seconds, attempting to stave off the smile before turning back toward her.

"Self-deprecation is the name of my game." He winked again and mentally kicked his own ass at the same time for the ridiculous behavior. "Do you like documentaries about murder or are they too harsh for a sweet girl like you?" he teased.

Once again she quirked an eyebrow as she tilted her head. "Sweet? Oh no, no, no, Juggie. I'm all about the beast within." And in that instant he saw it, the singular wink she shot him before a blush crept up her cheeks as he turned to find the remote. _Well, maybe she feels it too_ , he let himself think for half a second before falling back into his trademark self-deprecating nature. _No way. Stop it right there, Jones. Don't even let yourself entertain that notion in the slightest. There's no way-_ His stomach rumbled loudly, shaking him from his thoughts and earning him a small laugh from her.

"Are you hungry?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Well, what do you have? I could probably whip us something up?"

As she turned toward the freezer, he took two strides and placed his palm flat against the door just in time to stop her from opening it. "I have to warn you, there's slim pickings in there and I may or may not eat like a child. So no judgment, okay?"

"Oh, Jug, I would never judge you. A growing boy has to eat, right?"

"Right," he said slowly, pulling his hand back and watching her. A lonely box of pizza rolls and a tray of ice were all that he had in there. He heard her hum before reaching for the fridge and opening it as well.

There were a few eggs left in the carton, a half gallon of milk that was on the verge of spoiling and some hot dogs. Some condiments, juice, and creamer were in the door, but other than that it was empty. "For someone who says they love to eat, you sure don't have much."

"Non-perishables are the way to go, Betts," he said, punctuating her name with a pop of his lips as he reached over her shoulder and opened up the cabinet. There were cans of sides and boxes of dried goods stacked high on the shelf.

She leaned over and reached up, arching her feet to stand on the tips of her toes as she tried to reach something on the top shelf that she wasn't quite tall enough to get. For a good solid minute, he watched her and laughed before reaching up himself and tipping it forward enough for her to grab it.

Turns out it was pancake mix and within thirty minutes she had a whole spread of his favorite breakfast foods. Pancakes, eggs, toast, and corned beef hash were crammed onto his plate when he sat down across from her.

As he dragged his fork across the plate, scraping up the remains of the food that now called his stomach home, he finally looked up to see her staring at him with amusement. "You weren't kidding, were you? I don't think I've ever seen someone eat so much so fast!"

"Stick around and you'll see me devour my body weight twice on a daily basis." Again, he misspoke, wishing he could cram the words right back in his mouth as soon as they were out in the open. "I mean, I know you're not sticking around. I was just joking. I didn't really-"

"Jughead," she asserted, placing the same delicate hand on the same spot on his forearm for the second time that day. It didn't feel any less electric. If anything, the tingle still lingering was amplified as soon as her skin made contact with his. "I figured it was a joke. No big deal. And who knows? Maybe I'll find myself in the woods again if you feel like getting your ass kicked at Life again one day?"

With that, he let out a puff of air he hadn't realized he was holding. For all the times that he had misspoken so far that day, she had taken them in stride, utterly unfazed by his lack of graceful conversation. "Well, life always has a way of kicking my ass anyway. It wouldn't be anything new."

He saw her purse her lips together, pressing them firmly into a thin line as her thumb swiped over his skin again. "Life's a bitch, huh?"

With wide eyes he just stared at her, replaying her words for only a second before he found himself laughing again. She sure was surprising. For someone with a pastel sweater and picture-perfect ponytail, he hadn't expected those words to come from her mouth. It felt almost dirty to watch the way her mouth formed the curse, as if dirty words belonged there despite her spotless appearance. "You know, I'm starting to think it might not be all that bad sometimes," he heard himself saying, the words flying out of his mouth at their own volition, both unfiltered and unrealized until that very second.

"I guess you're right," she said with an easy smile. "I need to clean up, why don't you find that documentary and get it ready?"

"I can't let you do that. It's my kitchen, I'll take care of it. Just go hang out on the bed for a bit while I finish up, okay?"

"The bed?"

"Well you can obviously see there's no couch and despite my TV being on the opposite wall, I have faith that your eyesight is good enough to see from one end of the cabin to the other. I mean I _know_ it's cumbersome, being ten feet away and all, but I bet you can handle it."

"I'm sure I can."

There it was again, that smile that crept up the edges of her lips and curled around the insides of her cheeks, the same smile that had something twisting inside of his chest and clenching at the sight of it. He stood there for a solid minute, simply staring at her as she smiled up at him before clearing her throat and alerting him to exactly how fucking creepy he must have been. He quickly picked up the plates and made his way to the sink, gathering up the dishes she used to cook and starting the water so it would be hot enough to scrub them clean. All the while he chastised himself for being so ridiculous. _JONES! Get your shit together. How many fucking times do I have to say this? STOP. She is only here for-_

"Let me help," he heard her say, her voice soft yet close, closer than he realized. Thank god his inner monologue couldn't be heard because he was sure he'd just make a bigger ass of himself.

"You really don't have to. I've got-"

"I want to," she cut him off again with a simple press of her palm to his bicep and he scooted over to make room.

They made quick work of the cleanup, he scrubbed and she dried the dishes as the towering pile dwindled.

When the last dish was placed in the cabinet and he had washed his hands, she handed him the drying towel and their fingers brushed. Once again his skin felt the tingle as they barely touched and he thought she felt it, too. If the way her head angled up and her eyes locked with his was any indication, she had certainly felt _something._

"Thank you," he found himself saying as he hung the towel to dry. "You really didn't have to help clean up. It's always been tradition that whoever cooks doesn't have to do clean up, but I appreciate it anyway."

"Are you telling me you cook for other people?" she asked with clear mirth in her eyes.

Without even trying she could push his buttons, tease him just right, just enough to flair his irritation and still come off as positively adorable in one foul swoop. It would have been infuriating if she wasn't so damn cute while doing it. "I'll have you know, Betty, that I am an excellent cook. I just cook for one more often than not."

"Well then, I am _so_ glad I could give your culinary skills a break. It must get tiring whipping up such fine meals with," she paused opening the cabinet again and pulling out another box, this time one she could reach on her own, "Pillsbury instant cake mix and," she grabbed a can, twisting it so she could read the label, "Van Camp's brown sugar baked beans. They really take a ton of effort don't they?"

"There is nothing wrong with baked beans! And the cake mix is because I have an insatiable sweet tooth."

He watched as she trapped her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes scanning the box in concentration, but his gaze was trained on the lip being held hostage by her perfect, pearly white teeth. Even after she released it, he couldn't look away, entranced by the vision of the abused flesh slowly pillowing back out, the indent disappearing in a matter of seconds.

"Let's bake it," she said suddenly.

"Yeah?" he agreed without really hearing. It took considerable effort to drag his eyes away from her lips as they formed the words. Someone might call him crazy, but there was something enticing about the way her lips formed those words. If he let himself break them down, it started with the let's - it implied them both, together, 'us' added to the let, followed closely by bake, which might as well have been a dirty word to his ears.

She had it whipped up in no time, poured into the pans and popped in the oven faster than he realized was possible. It was already preheated, still serving as the only source of heat in the house and he reminded himself to turn it off when the cake was done. The bowl was still on the counter, remnants of the mix clinging to the sides as she reached forward and ran her finger through it, bringing it up to her mouth and sucking it clean in seconds. The way her lips wrapped around her finger and her eyes closed in delight made his cock twitch and he thanked every power that was that he was wearing a pair of tight-fitting boxers and a relatively restrictive pair of jeans.

Sweets were his favorite thing in the world, and he caught himself wondering if having her mix it would someone make it even sweeter, as if dipping her finger in the batter added her own brand of sweetness. When she dipped it in again, running the tip across a remnant of mix and holding it out to him, he leaned forward on instinct, wrapping his lips around her finger and swirling his tongue around the batter, sucking every last drop off before releasing it with an audible pop.

As he looked at her again, he noticed her emerald green eyes were a shade darker, locked on his as she bit her lip. Everything in him told him to back away as he noticed a small drop of batter at the corner of her mouth, but his hand moved without his mind thinking and he swiped the spot of chocolate off her face before licking it off his own finger. Somehow, some way, it tasted even sweeter when mixed with her skin. And for the millionth time that day, he thought about her lips, but this time it was the taste, the texture, the pressure they would put against his that would surely have him groaning and wanting more.

He could have sworn she was leaning forward, but he took a step back. That was a line he couldn't possibly cross. It was barely noon but the day was nearly half gone already. They had one day. One single day, and despite her earlier offhand comment about coming back around again, he wouldn't allow himself even a sliver of hope. Hope had never done him any good anyway, simply amplifying the disappointment that always seemed to follow.

Grabbing a glass from the shelf and filling it with water, he tried his hardest not to look at her again, but he could feel her eyes boring into him and he had yet to hear the shuffle of her feet. He went about searching for the remote and located it on his desk under some papers before turning to flip on the TV. When he finally felt like he had himself under control, and his urges had subsided, he turned again to find her sitting on his bed, and this time, despite his best efforts - and he really had tried - he let out an audible groan. She had slipped off her cardigan and was examining the hemline of her camisole carefully. Without much effort, his eyes zeroed in on the spot in question. A single drop of chocolate adorned the pure white cotton and he noticed her brows furrowing in concentration as she rubbed at it.

He cleared his throat as he walked over toward the bed, stepping past her until he was at his dresser. She looked at him in question as he offered her a shirt. It was one of his favorites, a dark green shirt with a large 'S' so faded it was barely even there anymore. He'd had about four of them since high school and wore each one more often than he cared to admit, but when he pushed it into her hands, she accepted it with a smile. "I'm just going to-" she paused, motioning at the bathroom door and he nodded.

"Yeah. Of course." He cleared his throat and swung his hand to the side in a sweeping move, motioning for her to go to the bathroom. Which, he did realize was redundant, but if he moved, she wouldn't have been able to walk by the in cramped space.

Once again as she passed and her arm swung, it brushed his fingers and he felt his skin come to life. It was like everywhere she touched was alight, his nerve endings on high alert from her simple presence.

While she was in the bathroom he let the credits roll, pausing as the first scene came up and walking to the kitchen. She was taking longer than he thought she should so he grabbed a bag of popcorn and started the microwave.

The bathroom door opened with a squeak at the same time the microwave dinged and he heard her laughing over his shoulder. "Really? Already?"

"Sounds like you don't want me to share," he teased, popping open the bag and pouring it into a bowl. "No Netflix binge is complete without popcorn. It's tradition. My house. My rules."

"Well then, I guess I must adhere to the house rules."

"Now you're catching on. Come on, I've got it pulled up."

Three full episodes and two bags of popcorn later when the credits rolled, he paused before playing the next episode. Other than when she got up to remove the cake pans halfway through the first episode and shut off the oven, they hadn't moved an inch, both their backs pressed to his headboard. He could have sworn at the time when she sat back down, she settled in a little bit closer.

"Excuse me. No way. You cannot stop it there. I need more."

"Chill out, Betts," he laughed. "I need to turn on the oven again. It's gotten chilly in here and there's a blizzard raging outside."

But before he could get up, she spoke. "I don't mind. Your comforter looks pretty thick, we could just get under it. I'm on pins and needles here. Just press play."

He had no idea how to respond to that. This strange girl, this beautiful girl he hadn't even know twenty-four hours ago was asking him to crawl under his own covers and practically huddle for warmth. When the word, "Okay," slipped from between his lips, the smile she wore had him pulling back the covers and shifting closer in a matter of minutes.

This time when he pressed play, they were definitely closer than before and he was glad the blizzard had dimmed the typical late afternoon light because he wouldn't even know how to begin to explain the grin cracking across his cheeks. Scratch that, he would and he did, it was all Betty, but he couldn't say that aloud.

When episode five came to its end and he felt the bed dip to his side, he looked over at her just in time to see her lay her head on his shoulder and let out a little yawn.

"Don't crash on me now, Betts. It's just getting good."

"I won't," she promised, but ten minutes later, when the sound of her breaths evened out, he looked down again to find her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling in a soft rhythm.

This time when he looked at her, he savored the sight, his eyes raking over the ponytail that now had a few flyaways from resting on his shoulder, his shirt just barely wrinkled as it hung loosely on her tiny frame. He watched the way her lips slightly parted as she breathed in and out with the softest sounds he had ever heard. He couldn't stop himself from recalling the image of her earlier that morning, curled up in his bed, much farther away than she was now, but the same sense of peaceful slumber radiating from her.

He pressed pause on the episode and let his own eyes shut for a few minutes. He told himself it would be quick, that he'd just take a quick nap, but when he awoke later, every surface in the cabin was coated in darkness save for the dim light from the paused screen that was now on a screensaver, showcasing Netflix's newest original series.

The next thing he noted was the warmth between his arms. They had shifted as they slept, both now laying down. She was curled up to his side with an arm slung across his waist and one of his arms was wrapped loosely around her hip in return. One leg was tossed over his and her face was pressed to his chest as he looked down at her to see that she was still fast asleep.

On one hand, he never wanted to move again, he'd die right there, in his bed, in that exact same spot if it meant she would never move, but his bladder was screaming at him and the cabin had gotten considerably cooler during their afternoon nap. He could hear the blizzard still raging outside and eventually decided that if he didn't get up right then, his bladder may actually burst. With gentle hands, he unwound his arm and lifted hers from around his waist. She shuffled slightly, attempting to cling to him again as she groaned in protest and pressed her face further into his chest.

"I need to get up, baby," he whispered without even registering the foreign term of endearment. He had made fun of Archie numerous times for giving his girlfriends pet names, but as the word tumbled from his lips, he thought it sounded oddly natural, like something she deserved to be called, a delicate term laced with affection. He wanted to blame it on his sleepy state, but in reality, he knew better. He knew he was getting in deep, deeper than he should, deeper than he had been in a long time, and as the hours wore on, his defenses began to recede.

She whined as he pulled away, a soft, "No," escaping her as she buried her head into the pillow still warm from his body. He could see her eyes flutter as she attempted to wake up; but he made his way to the bathroom anyway, flicking on the hallway light as he went. After he was done, he stared at himself for a long few moments in the mirror. His beanie must have fallen off when he fell asleep, but he found he didn't really mind. Other than a serious case of bed head, it didn't feel all that necessary as he splashed water on his face and gave himself a pep talk. _She is here for one day. It's almost over. You can do this. Control yourself, Jones._

Upon exiting the bathroom, he was met with a sight he wasn't sure he would ever see, Betty was burrowed under his covers, in his shirt, hugging the pillow he knew smelled like his soap and staring at him. She appeared to be wide awake and fully aware of her actions as she slowly stood and walked over to him. Before he could say a word or decide what to do next, her arms wound around his waist and she pressed herself against him, their bodies lining up in such a way that he felt himself on the verge of losing control. She fit perfectly. It had been far too long since he had someone in his arms like this, and even longer since it was someone he had wanted as badly as he found himself wanting her. After a beat, he wrapped his own arms around her shoulders and held her close as she breathed, "Thank you," against his chest. She pulled back gently, looking up at him and spoke again. "Seriously, Juggie, thank you. I might have frozen to death out there if I hadn't stumbled across your cabin. Thank you for letting me in."

He knew she meant into his home, but he had let her into more than that - his home, his mind, and maybe even the smallest bit into his heart. Though that sounded ridiculous after their short time together. All he could muster was a simple, "You're welcome," before she burrowed her face into the crook of his neck and tightened her grip on him once more.

He had never met anyone like her, never met someone so sharp, quick-witted, and so evenly matched with his sardonic humor. It was like a dream, like a fantasy he wished didn't have to end so quickly. He found himself wishing for a few extra days, praying for the storm to rage and the mechanics to all get sick, praying every car in a ten mile radius suddenly stopped working so they could stay cocooned in his cabin, in each other, in the warmth their bodies provided, for just a little bit longer.

She reminded him of Jocelyn, the protagonist from his novel, but unlike her, Betty was better. The depth Jocelyn had been lacking was found in spades in Betty. She was real, she was there, and she was everything he never knew he wanted, maybe even more than he deserved. The thought occurred to him that maybe what Jocelyn was lacking was Betty's warmth. She was a fierce protector of her realm with stronger magic than anyone else had ever seen, but maybe that was her problem - she was one dimensional, cold, without motivation. As he looked down at Betty again, his fingers trailing the length of her spine as she nuzzled against his chest, he reminded himself to include this. He wanted to write her stories, novels, pages upon pages about her sparkling green eyes and shining smiles. He wanted to record the exact way her eyes lit up when he teased her and find a way to put words to the way she looked in his bed as if she belonged there - as if it was more hers than his.

But he stopped himself again, realizing how deep he had just gotten and stiffened as she pulled away with a confused look on her face. "I, uh, need to go turn on the oven. It's too cold in here."

He didn't expect her to follow, didn't expect her to lean into him as she looked past him and toward the counter on the opposite side. He had nearly forgotten the cake until she moved around him and pulled down a plate, flipping over one pan and grabbing the icing from the cabinet. With deft hands, she grabbed a spatula and spread it evenly. It was like magic watching her work, the way she effortlessly spread the icing across the bottom layer and placed the next one on top was captivating for more than one reason. Sure he was watching the chocolate cake being assembled, and that in and of itself was mouthwatering, but the way she looked in his kitchen, using his utensils again as if they were her own caused him to pause as he stared on in awe.

When she was done mere moments later, she gripped the plate and lifted it as she turned towards him. "Ta-da!" she said triumphantly.

"Amazing." He meant more than just the cake, he meant _her_ too. He meant their day. He really and truly meant every single thing at that moment was _amazing_. She smiled at him as she placed the finished cake on the counter and he forced himself from reaching out for her. He wasn't able to control the thoughts but he could still control his actions, and he kept himself rooted to his spot so he didn't do anything foolish.

She served them two slices on plates and grabbed forks for them both as they settled at the table and dug in. After the first bite, he moaned, savoring the richness and the impossibly fluffy texture he had never been able to achieve out of the very same boxes. He was certain she was magic, and as she savored her last bite, her eyes closing as her lips wrapped around her fork, he found that he couldn't look away.

Without warning the cabin went dark, the soft whir of the power flickering out filled the air as the cabin was once again cloaked in darkness. The howl of the wind whipping around the cabin broke through the silence and he heard her set her fork back down before he felt her hand on his arm. "Juggie," she whimpered, "It sounds really bad out there."

On instinct he reached forward and gripped her hand, pulling them both up and away from the table. "Come on, we need to be away from the windows in the event of debris."

That must not have been helpful because she whimpered again as she laced her fingers through his and squeezed tightly. He directed her the short steps toward the bed, one hand in hers and the other placed low on her back. He must have misjudged because he bumped into the frame sooner than he had expected and let out a gasp.

Once he had safely steered her toward the bed and away from potential harm, he said, "Be right back," and made his way back to the kitchen. He felt around for his junk drawer, the one on the far side by the wall and yanked it open as the contents rattled. Shuffling through the collection of junk he located what he was looking for by feel alone, a few small tea light candles for emergencies just like this.

He rarely, if ever, lost power. It would seem that being out in the woods would mean it happened more regularly, but somehow the storms never quite got this bad and he had only once lost power to date since taking up residence in the lonely stretch of wilderness. He only had three candles total, and despite his want to bathe them again in light and watch her features as they morphed and changed with each laugh or sigh, he didn't know how long the power would be out and decided one candle at a time would have to do.

He lit the first candle and set it atop his dresser, coating the area in a dim glow. It wasn't much, certainly not enough to play another board game or pick out the details of her features he still had yet to memorize, but it was enough to lift the veil of black that hung over the room.

"Thank you," she whispered as he sat back on the edge of the bed beside her. "I'm not normally afraid of the dark, but the storm is getting worse."

He could hear the worry in her voice, even if he couldn't quite make out the crease in her brow that he was sure was there. "We'll be okay, Betts. The storm can't last _that_ long. Let's just do something to pass the time instead, okay?"

With a shaky voice, she said, "Okay," and he felt the bed dip at his side as she shuffled toward the middle. "Tell me a story," she whispered.

Jughead scooted further onto the bed, still firmly on his side but with far less space between them. He debated on moving closer, but decided against it, if that move were going to be made, it wouldn't be him making it. It couldn't be. "You know you don't have to whisper," he laughed, finally turning his head to look at her. He could barely make out the silhouette of her face as she stared straight ahead.

"I know. I always have though. When we would get snowed in as kids and my parents would inevitably wind up fighting, my sister and I would make a blanket fort and whisper to each other for hours. It was always fun."

The image of Betty as a child, cloaked in a sheet haphazardly draped over her sister and herself caused him to smile. He was sure it was adorable, much like he knew she was right then. Adorable and warm, unlike the chilly air dropping degrees by the minute. He cleared his throat, willing his thoughts to stay at bay and decided to tell her a story.

"Once upon a time-"

"Really? That's what you're going with," she giggled, shuffling closer again until he felt her thigh pressed against his. "Can we get under the covers? It's getting really cold."

"Yeah, uh, of course." Once they were both safely tucked under the covers, he felt her knee nudging his thigh before hooking around it.

"Is this okay?"

"Yeah. Yes. I mean, it's cold. It makes sense." The feel of her thigh thrown over his as one hand found purchase on his chest had him fumbling for words. But he knew they needed to stay warm, and basic instinct was to huddle for that warmth, even if it meant he needed to keep himself in check.

"Anyway, once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away-"

"You know," she interrupted again, "for a soon to be published author, you sure need some new material."

He turned to look at her again, their faces closer than they had been before and he wanted to jest back, to tell her she hadn't even heard the story yet and her snap judgments weren't appreciated, but instead he saw a small spot of chocolate frosting just at the edge of her lip. "You've got uh," he paused as his hand lifted toward her face, his finger pointed at the spot as she seemed to realize what he meant.

"Oh, um," she reached up to wipe it but missed it by a mile.

"No, on the edge, just-"

His finger inched forward, making contact with her skin as he wiped it away, but it wasn't all gone. Where the drop had been there was now a smear and he took another finger to press a bit firmer and finish cleaning it up.

"Are you going to let that go to waste?" she asked softly.

"Uh-" He had no idea how to respond, did she mean for him to lick his finger? Did she want to? Was he supposed to find a napkin? Where was she expecting-

But before he could overanalyze yet another thing, she leaned forward and licked the chocolate off the tips of his fingers with ease, her tongue swirling around as a soft moan escaped her lips.

They were entering tumultuous territory as he felt his body grow stiff all over: his hands, his shoulders, the muscles in his stomach all flexed at the same time as he felt _another_ part of him hardening, a part dangerously close to where she could feel it.

He shifted again, backing away a few inches as she looked at him in question. "I'm uh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

Even in the dim candlelight, he could see a sparkle in her eye as she said, "It's fine."

Without warning, without verbal acknowledgment of the momentous move she was about to make, she leaned across the stretch of bed that separated them and pressed her lips to his.

At first, it was soft, just a gentle brush before she pulled back tentatively, but the pressure finally boiled over as he leaned in again, recapturing her mouth and pouring his mounting desire into the simple gesture. It was a decidedly un-Jughead-like thing to do, to kiss someone he barely knew, to cuddle with them under his covers and whisper stories as a storm raged outside. But as their lips moved in unison, pushing and pulling in perfect time, he thought she was unlike anyone he had met before, so maybe it was alright that he let his mind wander throughout the day, maybe it was alright that he found himself wanting her in ways he hadn't felt in a long time, maybe it was alright that he nibbled on her lip and sunk his tongue in her mouth as she moaned at the contact. Maybe this was just what he needed.

Maybe _she_ was just what he needed.

Maybe, just maybe they could pretend, at least for a few hours, that this didn't have to end.

But all of the maybes in the world slipped away as he felt her palms trail up his jaw, cupping his cheeks and pulling him down to her. The tips of her fingers were sunk into his hair, threaded through the unruly locks and tugging gently as she directed his mouth, angling his neck to deepen the kiss.

It could have been seconds, maybe even minutes, or possibly hours for all he knew by the time he pulled back. Her lips were swollen, puffy from the pressure and slick from _him,_ and that sight, even more than before, had him diving back in. Her eyelids fluttered closed again, kissing the cheeks still lightly stained with pink as he eliminated the scant few inches between them.

This time when their lips connected, it felt like a freight train, the weight of his want a physical force propelling him forward as he pressed his body into hers. He was laying on his side but she pulled him on top, settling his body over her small frame. As his hips made contact with hers, she let out a gasp, followed by something even more enticing, the pressure of her hips lifting to his. With both of her legs wrapped loosely around the back of his thighs, and their centers grinding against one another, he could hardly breathe, but he didn't halt his movements, pressing farther into her as his lips trailed kisses along the column of her neck. She threw her head to the side, granting him access to the expanse of skin that did, indeed, taste just as good as he'd imagined. His earlier assumptions about the cake being seasoned with her sweetness were confirmed as he nipped at her collarbone and his tongue laved the indent.

"Juggie," she whined, her hips pressing into his harder as her legs hooked together more firmly to guide him.

It was all he could do to pull back long enough to breathe, "What?" across her skin before resuming his assault on the soft, supple skin at the base of her neck.

"I just want-" she breathed, pausing with her hands still sunk in his locks as she tugged on them to get his attention, "more."

And with that one little word, one syllable spilled from between two perfectly plump lips, something inside of him snapped as his hands, no longer tentatively sweeping her sides, found purchase on her hips. His mouth was on her neck, her shoulder, nipping as he trailed scorching kisses across every inch of skin he could find.

When he tugged at the collar, she gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it off before doing the same with hers. As soon as the offending fabric was shed, the punishing pace returned with an all-new fervor. When he sucked at the skin on the side of her neck she moaned a deep, guttural groan that reverberated through every fiber of his being, sending shockwaves straight to his groin as he pressed into her again.

With deft hands she popped the button his jeans and unzipped them in seconds, pulling the fabric down as he did the same. Within seconds they were both bare save for a few wispy scraps of fabric separating the parts he ached to touch the most. It could have been the sheer amount of time between this tryst and his last, maybe it was simply the fact that she was by far the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, but when she finally palmed him rock hard length through the thin boxers, he pulled his hips back along with his lips and simply stared at her, halting their movements for just a moment.

"You're so beautiful," he mumbled as his fingers toyed with the edge of her lacy underwear. She was wearing a matching set, both pieces a deep, rich pink, the same shade as the blush adorning her cheeks, and he couldn't stop the silly grin from spreading across his face as she smiled at him in return.

"I want you," she whispered, "all of you. Tonight."

"Baby," he drawled, his eyes raking over the endless expanse of skin that was newly exposed. "Let me take my time."

He pressed a kiss to her lips, it was meant to be short, soft, something simple he wanted to do for her before his depraved thoughts took over and they turned more sinful than sweet; but she wasn't having it, weaving her fingers into the hairs at the base of his neck as she pulled his face forward, crushing their lips together with renewed fervor.

When he finally pulled away, their hips perfectly aligned and stars in her eyes, his descent into madness began as his kisses trailed farther down her chest than they had been before. As he reached her nipple, he flicked his tongue out, running it over the taut peak barely visible through the thin lace and she arched into him.

"Please," she whined, and he was loathed to deny her, so he unhooked the fabric covering her and tossed it aside. As soon as he did, his lips were on her again, tasting her skin, sucking at the flesh before he pulled her nipple into his mouth, swirling and sucking on the skin until he felt it bruise beneath his lips. His other hand was kneading her other breast and in an instant, he switched sides, paying them both equal attention as she writhed beneath him. She keened as he bit the peak, grinding his teeth lightly against the skin before soothing it with his tongue.

She was panting, wet with want, pulsing with need by the time he moved further down. For one brief second, he looked up at her, wanting to confirm, at least one more time, that she still wanted this, that she wanted him as much as he knew he needed her that moment. But her eyes were closed and her head was thrown back as she moaned, "more," and he continued.

Her panties were still on, the lace still sitting against the alabaster skin of her hips when he finally reached his destination. In a second, she lifted her hips and he tugged her underwear down, dragging his fingers along the inside of her legs as the lace finally hit her heels and was pulled from her body. "Fuck," he growled, the primitive noise sounded foreign even to his own ears as she lifted her hips again, telling him, wordlessly, that she needed him, too.

And once again, he found he simply couldn't deny her as he brought his fingertips up to trace the slick line of her folds. She was soaking wet, positively glistening and he just wanted a taste. He wanted to know if she tasted as good as he thought, if the skin down there was just as delicious as the rest of it above so he brought his finger to his lips, licking it off as he had done the frosting earlier.

He knew he moaned, but he couldn't stop it if he tried, her essence simply too delicious to deny, and when he glanced up at her again, he was met with a vision. A vision of her, laid bare beneath his hands, beneath his tongue, beneath his body, panting and pulsing as he lowered his mouth to her, keeping their gazes locked all the while.

As soon as his lips sealed over her bundle of nerves, her eyes flew shut and her hips shot off the bed. He licked along her slit, bringing his lips back up to her clit as he slipped two fingers inside of her. He meant it when he said he wanted to take his time, but the way she was grinding against his hand, her fingers pressing his face into her center, he knew she wouldn't last long. At least not the first time. He pumped his fingers in and out of her as she built to release. With each gasp, he felt her walls begin to flutter, clenching and releasing around his fingers at a faster and faster pace until she fell apart under his hands.

Before she could even recover, he pulled his fingers away and replaced them with his tongue. He sucked and licked the swollen flesh again, his thumb taking his mouth's earlier place as he circled her clit with it, slowly at first, and then faster than she was ready for. Within minutes, she was falling apart again, but this time he sucked up every drop, licking her clean.

She tugged on his hair, pulling him up, away, pulling his lips to hers and as soon as she could reach, she shoved her tongue in his mouth, groaning as she tasted the evidence of her own arousal on his tongue. Their tongues swirled together, licking and sucking the other's as she reached between them and pushed down his boxers. He helped her the rest of the way, pulling them off with ease and reaching for his nightstand, but before he could pull it open, her hand circled his wrist and pulled it away. "We don't need it. I uh-" she paused, licking her lips, "I've got an implant and I'm clean."

His motions stilled, settling back over her as he lifted a hand and trailed his fingertips down her jaw, looking her in the eyes as he said, "Me too. But are you sure, Betty? I understand if-"

When her lips crashed against his, the rest of the words left unspoken felt unnecessary. Their tongues tangled again as she shifted until he was lined up with her entrance before she lifted her hips in silent invitation. She was soaking wet, bare beneath him as he pushed into her. He wasn't full of himself by any means, but when she groaned, "Slowly," he inched back and let her adjust before pushing forward just a bit more. After three different times, pulling back, pushing in, letting her adjust, he was finally in as far as he could go, buried to the hilt and his forehead dropped to her shoulder as her hands gripped his back. He felt her legs tighten, urging him to move, but he sat there an extra minute, drinking in the way she felt wrapped around him, her silken heat coating every inch of his arousal in slickness.

When he finally began to move, she whimpered, "More," again, and he found a steady pace. Starting slowly, he sank in as far as he could before pulling all the way back. It was unhurried, torturous, as though they had all the time in the world. He read her cues as if she were his favorite book, one he could recite by heart, the lines ingrained in his very being. He wanted to turn every page, read between her lines and make endless inferences from the subtle subtext of his name dripping from her lips between sinful moans. He wanted to know her, to study lines of her body like the finest prose. It was as if she was a feeling come to life, a feeling he couldn't explain even with the most eloquent words. For the first time in his life, Jughead Jones, author extraordinaire was really and truly speechless.

They found an easy rhythm together, moving like their bodies were made for each other, their pages unturned, crisp until the other discovered their new favorite story. She certainly was his. This feeling of a high he couldn't shake was his new favorite thing in the whole entire world.

The next time she whispered, "More," he answered with, "Okay," and picked up the pace. Her nails were digging into his shoulders, her lips coming up to suckle on the skin on his neck, and he could have sworn he saw stars burst behind his eyes as he gasped when she shifted again, pulling him deeper, filling every inch of her with every inch of him.

It was intense, drugging, intoxicating to the point that he felt drunker than he had the night before. Only this time, this time he would remember. He attempted to memorize every detail of her body, every dip and curve illuminated only by the soft glow of the candle.

Their moans were louder than the storm raging outside and before long, he knew he was nearing his peak. Her walls were fluttering again, curses dripping from her lips as their movements fell out of sync. It was choppy at best as he brought his hand down between them and rubbed right where she needed him. Once again, as if reading the same lines, their bodies released in unison, him spilling inside of her as she pulled him in and fell apart.

He couldn't even hold his weight any longer as he pulled out of her and fell to the bed beside her body, still quaking from release, her toes still tightly curled. "That was amazing," she whispered after a singular moment of silence. "Juggie, I've never-"

"Me either," he offered quickly, knowing exactly what she was going to say because he had never felt that either, the undeniable connection forged between their bodies.

"I can't believe I have to-"

"Shhh," he silenced her, bringing a finger up to her lips and pressing it gently. "Please don't say it, not now. Just-" he paused, pulling the finger back and replacing it with the soft press of his lips, "Let's just enjoy this. Right here. Right now."

And when she said, "Okay," he let himself forget that it wasn't forever.

They laid in bed for a long time, the storm howling outside of the walls barely even fazing either of them as they traced light patterns over every inch of still exposed skin. The cabin was certainly warmer, heated from their bodies and trapped under the covers to preserve the foreign feel of pure warmth emanating from them both.

When he fell asleep that night, she curled up to him, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, no barriers between them expect the unspoken knowledge of her sure departure the next day. Maybe he'd ask her to visit in the morning. One night stands weren't exactly his style, but he knew there was something more. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something magical about her that he never wanted to let go.

Images of her danced behind his eyelids as the sun filtered through the window. He wanted to keep them shut as long as possible, replaying the pictures in his mind until he remembered every detail. That was until he remembered she was still there. And the moment that thought registered in his brain, he let his lids pull open, his hands searching for her sleeping form only to be met with a sight he hadn't expected.

His bed was still made, his clothes still firmly on his body, the sheets cold and unmussed as if they hadn't been tossed and turned the night before. He sat up abruptly, calling, "Betty," and receiving no answer. As soon as his feet hit the ground, his head began to pound, his stance unsteady as he crashed back onto the bed. _What the fuck was going on?_

Once he finally regained his balance, he stood once more, first checking the bathroom only to be met with an empty space. Her coat was gone from the hook and he rushed to the kitchen. All he could do was scratch his head as he took in the scene before him.

There was no cake, the mix still firmly set in the cabinet, no dishes from the night before sitting on the counter, no burned out candle on his dresser. The bottle of Jack still sat on the counter, the cap haphazardly thrown to the floor and the stench so strong he wanted to vomit. A cold breeze blew through the still opened window and he pulled it shut quickly with a loud thud, surprised the pane of glass hadn't shattered from the sheer force of his anger. He walked over to the trunk and pulled out Life, flipping the lid open unceremoniously and taking in the sight of the mussed up pieces. They weren't neatly stacked, completely unkempt and unorganized. He sank to the floor as the realization dawned on him, settling deep in his bones.

 _This was all a dream. A fucking fever dream? A drunken imagination conjured her up? What the actual fuck?_ After ruminating on the unfortunate facts for longer than he intended, he decided to stop feeling sorry for himself and his cruel, unconscious mind.

 _Well, what are you going to do about it, Jones?_

What he did was nothing. Not for a long time. His ass was numb by the time he lifted himself off the floor. For her being a figment of his imagination, the hurt he felt seemed awfully real, nearly visceral as he held back a crushing wave of disappointment.

Two days later, when it stung just a bit less, when her image was a little bit blurry, when his skin no longer tingled from the harsh memory of the way their bodies melded as one, he booted up his laptop and his fingers take over.

Jocelyn now had blonde hair and forest green eyes, she was quick-witted and snarky. He weaved every bit of Betty he could remember into his protagonist, attempting to preserve her memory as best as he could.

One week later the final draft was sent to his publisher and with minimal edits, his novel was off to the printers.

It had been nearly three months since the night in his cabin that he still couldn't explain. Three months of trying to forget something that felt too real to be fake. Three months of nothing other than the sound of silence bouncing off his barren walls.

He was at his first book signing, an engagement he didn't even want to participate in but was reminded by his agent twice, gently the first time and in an annoying assertive voice the second time, that it was in his contract and he was obligated. So as he sat at the table, ticking down the minutes until it officially started and doors were opened, he lazily scrawled his name in a few books to prepare.

When the first person walked up to the table, it was her voice that he noticed first. A soft, "Excuse me," snapping him out of his haze of self-pity. The second thing he saw was her eyes, the same emerald irises that had haunted him for months stared down at him as she gave him a shy smile. "I just wanted to say that I loved your book. I've never read anything like it and I just-" she paused, sucking in a deep breath as her smile bloomed wider, "I just can't even tell you how amazing it is."

He was still silent, debating on whether or not he should pinch himself, make sure he hadn't fallen asleep at the table as he waited, but the way her gaze held his told him not to miss a single second of whatever this was. "Tha-Thank you," he stammered.

"No," she said vehemently, "thank _you_. This story changed my life. I just felt so connected to Jocelyn. It was like she really spoke to me."

He cleared his throat, reaching a shaky hand forward to take her book and flipped open the cover. "Who, uh, who do I make this out to?"

"Betty Cooper."

"Betty? Uh… Betty Cooper, you said?" He really was trying to remain calm, but his skin remembered every inch of her body and his mind was replaying the night that was never far from his memory.

"Yes, please," she said with a smile.

He couldn't speak another word, slowly dragging the pen across the page as he scrawled his signature. _It's now or never. Make a move. Seize the day_ , he told himself. "Do you maybe want to, um, forgive me if this is too forward please, Betty, but do you maybe want to grab a cup of coffee after all this over?" He motioned widely at the area surrounding them, packed full of people but all he could see was her, her golden blonde hair, now laying in soft waves against her shoulder, her bright green eyes trained only on him.

And she nodded. One simple word slipping from her lips, wrapping around his heart as hope once again bloomed in his chest.

She said, "Yes."


End file.
